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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24341365">resurrectionism</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechfox/pseuds/screechfox'>screechfox</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Author's Favourites [16]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Complicated Relationships, Grave Robbers, M/M, Mild Mind Control, Sedation, Vampire Bites, Vampire Turning, Vampires</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:29:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,284</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24341365</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechfox/pseuds/screechfox</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Grave-robbery is a dangerous pastime. </p><p>Or; after an incident while procuring bodies for study, Jonathan finds himself the object of Jonah’s curiosity.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jonathan Fanshawe/Jonah Magnus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Author's Favourites [16]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1829980</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>143</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Associated Articles Regarding One Jonah Magnus</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>resurrectionism</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>me, writing another vampire AU? <i>gasp</i>, perish the thought. but this one has that georgian fancy-boy flair!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s dirty work, digging up bodies. The mud of freshly reopened graves clings to Jonathan’s hands, and his clothes invariably end up soaked through with sweat.</p><p>Truth be told, Jonathan is not a man good-natured towards disarray. This whole endeavour is a matter of necessity, not pleasure — how is one meant to study the human body with no examples? If he wishes to be an accomplished doctor, he must be an accomplished gravedigger too.</p><p>At least he has an easier time of it than some of his peers. His fellow students are often tormented by spiritual concerns — it isn’t <em> right </em> to disturb that perfect container of the soul, they reason. They’re all fools, in his opinion; no soul lingers in a corpse.</p><p>Breathing heavily with exertion, Jonathan leans back to wipe his brow.</p><p>As he moves, moonlight falls on the marble-still face beneath him. Those eyes go sharp with hunger as they stare up at him. That slack-jawed mouth reveals gleaming canines that, even from this distance, seem far too sharp. </p><p>A chill goes up Jonathan’s spine, for all that he does his best to dismiss it. He’s not Jonah; he’s not the sort to welcome these macabre notions with a warm smile and a knife behind his back. Firmly chiding himself, he gets to his feet, leaning on the handle of the shovel for just a moment — from here, the corpse looks reassuringly normal — before resuming his digging.</p><p>Jonathan only realises the mistake of his complacency when a pale hand bursts out of the soil and wraps around his wrist. Before he can react, it pulls him into its grave.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” comes a whisper, like a voice without breath. </p><p>Jonathan’s head is spinning from the impact with the ground, and the hand around his wrist is as unyielding as a shackle. No matter how he struggles, he can’t free himself from its grasp.</p><p>“Just relax,” the whisper comes again, sibilance winding its way into his brain.</p><p>With muted horror, Jonathan feels himself go slack. Everywhere the corpse touches him, a chill seeps into his skin. Though it’s sluggish at first, like someone waking from a deep sleep, it soon gains a vitality that is frankly unwarranted for something that gives all appearances of being dead. The corpse manoeuvres him like a ragdoll as it sits up from its grave; his head lolls against its shoulder, filling his mouth with grave-dirt.</p><p>Jonathan tries to shout — better to reveal himself to the guards than to die here to some unearthly fiend — but his voice is as traitorous as the rest of his body.</p><p>The corpse’s hand comes to rest in his hair, pulling his head further aside. His neck is exposed to the night air, and he feels his pulse quicken beneath his skin. He feels like prey, or a piece of meat for the slaughter, and he can’t decide which notion is worse.</p><p>When he feels fangs disturbing the delicate workings of his throat, he’s hardly even surprised.</p><p>It’s painful for a moment, then a gentle lassitude spreads out from the wound. Jonathan’s eyes flutter open, startled by the sudden pleasure. A type of venom, perhaps? It seems redundant; he’s already paralysed, after all.</p><p>Blood spills from the bite in his throat, and though this creature seems to have an appetite for it, it’s hardly staunching the flow. He feels the blood seep down his neck, underneath his clothes, and he’s surprised by how unworried he is at the sensation. There’s a fog building in his thoughts, warm and pleasant like a sunlit morning in the country.  </p><p>He’s dizzy with blood loss— no, giddy with it, his mouth twitching into a smile. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to die here. Certainly, it would inspire a sort of poetic irony.</p><p>“What did you do to me?” Jonathan slurs; the paralysis it had forced on him is wearing off, though he’s no less drugged for it.</p><p>The corpse doesn’t respond, but he hadn’t particularly expected it to. His blood would go to waste if it removed its mouth from his neck, and Jonathan abhors waste.</p><p>There’s a rustling of movement somewhere nearby.</p><p>The corpse goes still, pulling him closer in a movement that could almost be possessive.</p><p>“Strange time of night to be in a graveyard,” a voice calls. What’s left of Jonathan’s blood runs cold as he recognises that low, insidious timbre. Of course Jonah would pick <em> tonight </em> to go out ghost-hunting, or whatever his studies have him involved in now. Just Jonathan’s luck.</p><p>Hissing against his throat, the corpse pulls Jonathan closer still. Even if he were possessed of all his wits, the embrace seems unbreakable, as though he’s enclosed in the arms of a statue.</p><p>“Jonah,” Jonathan’s meagre attempt at a warning is muffled by the ragged fabric of the corpse’s shirt.</p><p>“Ah,” he hears Jonah say, a few metres away, and then there’s a flash of light, near-blinding.</p><p>The next few moments happen in a blur, and it’s all Jonathan can do to keep track of it all: his back hitting the ground as the creature discards him; the sound of skin tearing like old paper; copper mingling with the grave-dirt in his mouth. When he blinks back to awareness, the creature is gone, and Jonah is staring down at him, one hand pressed to the wound on his neck.</p><p>“Dr. Fanshawe,” he murmurs, unfairly gentle for the situation. “Are you conscious?”</p><p>“Well enough,” Jonathan manages to reply, his tongue still sluggish in his mouth. “A little intoxicated, I believe, but I… I am regaining my senses.”</p><p>“Can you sit up?”</p><p>“Perhaps.”</p><p>With Jonah’s help, Jonathan pushes himself upright. His limbs feel weak and ungainly, as though he’s forgotten how to support himself. If he stood up, he’d just as soon fall to his knees.</p><p>He covers Jonah’s hand with his, feeling the blood spilling through their intertwined fingers; a transfusion might not go amiss, though Jonathan hardly trusts the safety of the procedure. </p><p>“I don’t suppose your appearance was a coincidence,” Jonathan mutters.</p><p>“Mine? No.” Jonah’s brows draw together as he glances down at the empty grave on which they both sit. “Yours? Rather more so. You have bad luck, Doctor.”</p><p>“Don’t try my patience, Jonah, I’m an injured man.”</p><p>“Not so injured that you can’t bite, by the sounds of things.” Jonah smiles, an insufferable quirk of his lips. He sits back, though his hand still rests warm on Jonathan’s neck. “I received a tip that a danger was buried here just this evening. If I’d known of your presence, I might have hurried.”</p><p>“And if it had been some other unlucky graverobber?”</p><p>Jonah laughs. His hand tightens against the bite, though the bleeding has slowed to a trickle. He doesn’t dignify Jonathan with a reply, but Jonathan hadn’t expected him to. They already know the answer to his question well enough.</p><p>By the time Jonathan feels steady enough to stand, Jonah’s lantern is almost burnt out. </p><p>“I must insist on accompanying you home, good doctor,” he says, smiling in that way where he knows he’s going to get precisely what he wants. Sometimes, Jonathan doesn’t know why he indulges Jonah so often — it clearly does his personality no favours.</p><p>“There’s really no need,” Jonathan insists, wishing to maintain at least a fraction of his dignity,</p><p>“Humor me, Jonathan,” Jonah says, quieter this time. His hands are warm where they’re wrapped around Jonah’s wrists. “You’ve gone very pale.”</p><p>“Fine. If it will ease your troubled mind.”</p><p>The lamp-lighters aren’t out to extinguish the street lights yet, and thank the heavens for that; with Jonathan covered in dirt and blood, and one of Jonah’s arms wrapped around him for support, they would make an alarming sight.</p><p>They don’t speak on the short journey to Jonathan’s residence, but when they arrive, Jonah lingers at the door. Jonathan raises a brow at him from where he’s fumbling for his keys, silently urging him to speak.</p><p>Jonah smiles, tilting his head like Jonathan is one of his curiosities.</p><p>“If it’s agreeable, I’ll call on you tomorrow evening to be certain you’re making a full recovery.”</p><p>“You aren’t my physician, Jonah.”</p><p>“No. Just your friend.”</p><p>Jonah’s eyes are earnest, the colour of melting ice. Perhaps the venom still lingers in Jonathan’s blood; he feels entirely unable to deny the sight of Jonah’s gaze lit by lamplight.</p><p>“And I yours,” Jonathan concedes. “Tomorrow evening, then. I shan’t promise to be at my best.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Fearing infection, Jonathan catalogues his symptoms over the course of the next day.</p><p>Though he feels energised for the rest of the night, a peculiar lethargy settles on his shoulders when dawn’s first rays begin to filter through the curtains. He has been awake for many hours, of course, so his fatigue is likely entirely natural. It still worries him, for reasons he cannot articulate.</p><p>Jonathan notes his loss of appetite at breakfast, and then again at lunch — so much so that he doesn’t even bother considering dinner. The few mouthfuls he manages to force himself through evoke the lingering taste of grave-dirt on his tongue, and he has to spit them out into the sink.</p><p>Fever doesn’t set in; if anything, his temperature is running cooler than it should be. </p><p>His pulse is sluggish and weak. A worse doctor might examine him and consider him a dead man, were it not for the spark of life that keeps him animate.</p><p>Again, Jonathan considers whether the intoxication of the bite still intends to keep him pliant. These symptoms are worrying, and yet he cannot summon the slightest flicker of concern over their source. He notes them, considers fretting over them, and then returns to his reading.</p><p>When evening comes, he hears Jonah knocking on his door.</p><p>That, too, seems unimportant, as though he’s gained a distance from Jonah that cannot be taken back. All the same, he knows Jonah will simply pick the lock if he isn’t greeted, so Jonathan arises from his armchair, swaying unsteadily as he walks to the entrance hall.</p><p>“Good evening, Dr. Fanshawe.” Jonah inclines his head like a proper gentleman.</p><p>“Jonah,” Jonathan responds. He turns away, not intending to linger at the threshold. If Jonah wishes to follow him inside — and he will — then that’s his business.</p><p>True to form, he hears Jonah’s footsteps following him only a moment later, barely pausing to divest himself of his coat and hat. Jonathan doesn’t even have time to settle back in his chair before Jonah appears in the doorway, expression pleasingly off-kilter.</p><p>“Jonathan?”</p><p>“Hm?” Jonathan retrieves the book he had been reading, finding his page without difficulty.</p><p>“Might I suggest a light?”</p><p>At that, Jonathan blinks. He looks up at Jonah, then looks around the room. None of his gas-lights are on; there isn’t even the flicker of a candle flame. By all rights, the room should be black as coal, and yet Jonathan can see without impediment.</p><p>A faint disquiet finally breaks the unnatural tranquility that had stolen away his reason.</p><p>“I— Yes. Quite.”</p><p>He stands, feeling Jonah’s eyes following him even in the darkness. When illumination breaks through treacherous night, Jonathan finds himself shielding his eyes against it for several moments. A single candle-flame seems as bright as the sun.</p><p>“My apologies,” he says, stilted, as he turns back to Jonah. “I must still be out of sorts.”</p><p>“Quite understandable,” Jonah replies with practiced insincerity. </p><p>Jonathan scowls, unease subsumed by irritation. He knows the falsely pacifying expression on Jonah’s face — the sort of thing he uses to extract money from those fools who sponsor his Institute. Jonathan steps forward, intent on ending this interaction as soon as possible.</p><p>“So. You’ve come to play-act as my physician, then.”</p><p>Jonah doesn’t even blink, stepping forward into Jonathan’s personal space. He raises his hand as though to reach for the bandage on Jonathan’s neck, and Jonathan goes still. </p><p>“If you’ll allow me, yes. I always find a second opinion useful in matters such as these.”</p><p>“That’s a lie. The only opinion you ever rely on is your own, Jonah.”</p><p>“I could say the same for you, dear friend.” Jonah’s smile turns sharper, gratifyingly genuine in its mocking amusement. “What’s the expression— two birds of a feather?”</p><p>“You’re certainly a peacock.”</p><p>Jonathan takes a deep breath, attempting to disregard the strange weight of air in his lungs. He’s well-accustomed to anger — anger at Jonah even more so — but this emotion seems as though it’s a tide pulled by the moon, utterly irresistible. It doesn’t feel like anything he can control.</p><p>“Tell me, Jonah,” he starts, the words rising from some poisonous place within him. “When you saw that creature making a feast of my flesh, did some part of you wish to watch me die?”</p><p>“Jonathan.” Jonah’s brow is furrowed, lips pursed in concern or frustration.</p><p>With a sudden fury, Jonathan pushes him against the wall, one hand wrapping around his throat.</p><p><em> “Don’t </em> treat me like I’m a fool. You yourself told me enough of Barnabas Bennet’s fate. It’s your nature to stand by and observe when those you surround yourself with are endangered.” </p><p>Jonah’s pupils are dilated, and his pulse is rabbit-fast beneath Jonathan’s fingers. Jonathan feels his own heart quicken in some nameless anticipation. Possessed by a will not quite his own, he bares his teeth at Jonah, leaning closer until their faces nearly touch. </p><p>He feels no more in control than before. Jonah looks as poised as always, though his breathing is heavy and his cheeks are flushed.</p><p>“Fascinating,” he murmurs, eyes on Jonathan’s lips. “Your canines are longer.”</p><p>As quickly as the rage had appeared, it dissipates. Jonathan’s arms sag, his grip on Jonah falling away. He steps backwards, but Jonah’s hand catches his chin and holds him firm.</p><p>“Steady, Dr. Fanshawe. I only wish to take a closer look.”</p><p>“At least allow me to examine myself first.”</p><p>Though he releases Jonathan from his grasp, Jonah doesn’t move to give him any space. His expression is a mixture of fascination and wonder, the sort of thing that lovers dream of; it prompts a scoff from Jonathan as he draws back, raising a hand to his mouth.</p><p>He’s no dentist, but it’s easy to observe the increased length of his canines just by brushing his thumb across his upper teeth. He presses on the edge of one tooth and feels blood beading on his skin. Before he can stop himself, his tongue darts out to claim those few drops of copper, and it tastes— it tastes like the finest wine, like the gods’ ambrosia of immortality.</p><p>With some effort, Jonathan pulls his hand away from his mouth. When he glances down at his thumb, there’s no wound in sight, just a faint smudge of red across his fingerprint.</p><p>Jonah is still looking at him with that quiet awe. Have any of Jonah’s past lovers have received such worshipful looks for their beauteous doom, or is that meagre honour Jonathan’s alone?</p><p>“May I?” Jonah asks, holding out a hand.</p><p>Against his better judgement, Jonathan steps forward, allowing Jonah to examine him. His hand is warm and vital against Jonathan’s cheek, and Jonathan is abruptly aware of what he’s lost; it is only a poor mimicry of the spark of life that keeps him standing here. </p><p>“If I’m not mistaken, all of your teeth have sharpened, not just your canines — though the changes are certainly most pronounced there.” Jonah leans back, smile all askew, and meets Jonathan’s eyes. “Rather like the teeth of a carnivore — all ripping and tearing.”</p><p>“Did you know this would happen?” <em> Is that why you chased away the monster? </em></p><p>“I had an inkling, perhaps,” Jonah allows. </p><p>“Of course you did.”</p><p>Jonah doesn’t stop him as he steps away, falling back into his armchair. He buries his head in his hands, wishing that the darkness behind his eyelids wasn’t so welcoming. </p><p>By the sound of his footsteps, Jonah has settled into the other armchair. Most likely, he’s watching Jonathan, waiting for his composure to finally fail him. A man of science shouldn’t be seeking answers from one who studies the esoteric, but this is the world they live in.</p><p>It’s only when Jonathan realises he can still hear Jonah’s heartbeat that he finally gives in.</p><p>“What do you know about this… affliction?”</p><p>“Not a large amount, I’ll admit.” Jonah doesn’t sound nearly as repentant as he ought to; his smile is audible. “There have been rumours of attacks on the local populace, although most have resulted in death by exsanguination. Those rare cases that didn’t… the victim becomes aggressive to those around them, perishing from others’ self-defense or apparent dehydration.”</p><p>Jonathan’s head snaps up. Perhaps he was hasty in assuming that Jonah had saved his life. Jonah has the gall to laugh, his smile gently fond and infuriatingly condescending.</p><p>“At ease, Jonathan. Surely you yourself know that the medical community isn’t fond of considering new ideas. You are not doomed — at least, I hope not, as I would miss our conversations dearly.”</p><p>“You would miss the sound of your own voice, and no more.”</p><p>At that, Jonah’s expression softens into something that nearly resembles sadness. “Untrue.<br/>
You wound me.”</p><p>“I believe I’m the wounded one here, Jonah. Perhaps even terminally, if what you say is true.”</p><p>“I’ll be the judge of that— if you wouldn’t mind?”</p><p>Without waiting for a reply, Jonah stands from the other chair, approaching Jonathan without any hint of hesitance. He falls to his knees just as gracefully, eyes roughly level with the bandage on Jonathan’s throat. As he peels the bandage away, Jonah hums, as if in confirmation.</p><p>“Your healing process has accelerated dramatically.” Jonah’s fingers press into tender skin until Jonathan has to bat them away. It wasn’t painful, just… sensitive.</p><p>“A medical miracle?” Jonathan comments, managing to summon a ghost of dry humour.</p><p>Jonah laughs obligingly. From this angle, he looks just as predatory as Jonathan imagines himself to seem; the light plays tricks on his eyes, Jonah’s canines gleaming in his grin.</p><p>“If my research bears true, it’s more likely to be ascribed to the work of the devil.”</p><p>“Whoever’s occult intervention it was, I’m getting tired of you dancing around the matter.”</p><p>Jonah moves to stand, and Jonathan watches as his own hand falls on Jonah’s shoulder, keeping him down. He thinks of his head on Jonah’s shoulder, his face nestled in the crook of Jonah’s neck— and biting down, glutting himself on the nectar of Jonah’s life. The thought is an unwelcome intrusion, and Jonathan feels a wave of horror at himself, but he cannot bring himself to let Jonah up.</p><p>“Very well,” Jonah’s voice is low with caution — or perhaps something more dangerous, prepared to do what is necessary to defend himself. “Those affected by this creature gain abilities beyond those of a mortal man, while also acquiring its weaknesses.”</p><p>“Elaborate,” Jonathan demands, staring down at him.</p><p>“I believe photophobia was listed in the reports I received, as well as a craving to consume blood.” Jonah tilts his head towards Jonathan’s hand, and the crimson still smeared across his thumb. “These were dismissed as faults of the mind, but I believe them to be wholly physiological in nature. You are undergoing a metamorphosis into something other than human.”</p><p>All at once, Jonathan feels very tired.</p><p>“Is there a cure?”</p><p>“None that I know of, unless you count death— and I would prefer that you didn’t.”</p><p>“What other option is there? You claim that this transformation doesn’t mean my end, but the evidence you give shows otherwise. I would have preferred a gentle slumber in that empty grave than a tortuous surrender to my own unsated hungers.”</p><p>At that, Jonah laughs, though his mirth fades under Jonathan’s melancholic stare.</p><p>“Poetic as that may be, I don’t believe the situation is as dire as you say. After all, you have something that none of our creature’s unfortunate victims had: an understanding friend with a keen interest in matters of supernatural occurrence.”</p><p>“And how does that help me, exactly?”</p><p>“Well, it means that you have an eager meal for your appetite.”</p><p>Jonathan blinks, then leans back, shaking his head vehemently. Jonah follows his movements, closing the distance between them with the kind of eagerness that cannot be healthy.</p><p>“You cannot honestly be suggesting what I think—”</p><p>“We both know what I’m suggesting, and I find it quite reasonable. You require human blood to survive, and here I am. Obviously I’d prefer that you didn’t kill me, although I understand I frequently provoke that urge in our conversations.”</p><p>“Don’t joke about that,” Jonathan snaps. “I have no genuine desire to hurt you, Jonah.”</p><p>“I rather doubt that.” Jonah’s words are like a knife threading through Jonathan’s ribs.</p><p>He raises a hand, demure— ha, as if Jonah would ever be demure —and holds it in the air as though he expects Jonathan to press a gentlemanly kiss to his skin. His cheeks are flushed, pink-lipped and boyish, and Jonathan is acutely aware of the aching absence of a beating heart within his own chest.</p><p>“Jonah, really— I can’t—” </p><p>Jonathan can feel his self-restraint failing him. Reaching out, he takes Jonah’s hand, turning his palm to the ceiling to expose the delicate blue lines of the veins in that pale wrist. His bones feel so fragile underneath Jonathan’s touch; it would be so easy to break him, and no doubt he knows it.</p><p>Something of Jonathan’s emotion must show on his face, because Jonah smiles up at him.</p><p>“I trust you, Dr. Fanshawe. I’m sure you’ll do right by me.”</p><p>There’s nothing Jonathan can say to that which wouldn’t make him feel as though he were a prey animal presenting his underbelly to a predator. He purses his lips and gives in.</p><p>It feels as natural as breathing to bite down into Jonah’s wrist.</p><p>Jonah makes a sound of pain, a strikingly vulnerable thing for the composed figure he presents himself as. He’s never seen Jonah in pain before, he realises. Something vicious in his chest would quite like to change that — how much can Jonah take before he breaks?</p><p>He thinks of scalpels then, the lightweight metal making delicate incisions in unblemished skin. The taste of Jonah’s blood on his tongue calls to mind long hours of surgery — copper and pain and near-certain death. Jonathan is almost nostalgic for the operating theatre.</p><p>“Are you enjoying yourself?” Jonah whispers, voice high and tremulous.</p><p>Jonathan bites down deeper, rejoicing in how Jonah’s lips part on a pained gasp.</p><p>Those dull few droplets Jonathan had drank from his own flesh could never compare to each swallow of Jonah’s freely given lifeblood. With every mouthful, it’s as though Jonathan’s body is remembering how to be alive, his veins tingling with remembered warmth.</p><p>Jonah’s free hand comes up to grasp at Jonathan’s knee. His lashes flutter open and shut as though he’s struggling to stay awake, and there’s a quiet desperation to the downwards curve of his lips.</p><p>A chill of distant horror shivers across Jonathan’s skin as he pulls away, watching as Jonah succumbs to the sedative in Jonathan’s bite. From a medical perspective, it’s fascinating. From a personal one, he’s sick with himself, blood-tinged bile rising in his throat. </p><p>“Jonah?”</p><p>Jonah blinks slowly, swaying forwards in clear intoxication. After several moments of furrowed-brow concentration, he makes eye contact with Jonathan, summoning a vague shade of his usual smile.</p><p>“Don’t fret,” he returns, a little slurred. “I’m sure I’ll be fascinated by this effect when I regain my senses.”</p><p>Jonathan swallows, and though he dearly wishes to bow his head and drink more, that can only worsen the effects on Jonah. He presses a hand to the wound instead, his palm held firm against Jonah’s skin.</p><p>“I’m not fretting. Simply…” <em> Scared, </em> he finishes in the privacy of his thoughts. “Nevermind that. I ought to dress your wound sooner rather than later. Can you stand?”</p><p>Evidently not, it turns out, though Jonah gives it several attempts. In the end, Jonathan resorts to supporting him with one arm as he stumbles towards a chair. Jonah’s breathing slows as he settles on the cushions, and all of his usual sly quips seem to have deserted him. Jonathan guides Jonah’s hand to the bite, pressing down until Jonah matches the pressure.</p><p>“Keep your hand there,” he orders. “I’m going to retrieve some bandages.”</p><p>Remaining well-stocked with medical equipment has often felt over-cautious, but it’s pleasingly convenient now. When he returns to the study, Jonah is still awake — more or less. His head has lolled backwards, but his hand still clutches at the mark Jonathan left on him. His eyes focus unerringly on Jonathan as he approaches, but Jonathan hadn’t expected anything less.</p><p>It’s no less difficult to resist Jonah’s blood as Jonathan bandages the wound. The life he’d stolen — been offered, he reminds himself, though the distinction shouldn’t matter — is fading from his flesh, leaving him just as cold as the corpse that had started this whole miserable affair.</p><p>By the time Jonathan finishes his work, Jonah has yielded to slumber.</p><p>Jonathan sits back to examine him. Those sun-kissed cheeks turned pale from Jonathan’s hungers; his shirt-sleeve still rolled up from how he’d presented himself like a sacrifice to a priest; the eerie calm of his face, stripped of all performance. He looks so fragile, lying there, and Jonathan feels something strange welling up in his chest like blood from a wound.</p><p>He’ll sit here for a while, he decides. It’s a doctor’s responsibility to keep watch over his patients, and Jonah is very vulnerable right now. Jonathan would be remiss in his duties if he looked away.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you for reading, have a good day!</p><p>you can find me at <a href="http://screechfoxes.tumblr.com/">screechfoxes</a> on tumblr!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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